


Bloody Noses

by orphan_account



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: GROSS KINKS BEWARE, M/M, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparring matches don't usually end like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: don't post without editing.
> 
> (moderately edited for better read (I hope)!)

The first punch Ocelot threw missed. Like, totally missed. Missed so hard it threw him off balance, which made it easy for Big Boss to recover from the quick duck and sink a swift jab into the younger mans' ribs.

Grinning at the sharp sound of air leaving lungs, Big Boss brought himself up and landed another heavy punch into Ocelot's jaw. A soft crack snapped through the air on contact, the blond man's head snapping back.

Ocelot stumbled backwards as he fought to breathe, spitting out the blood beginning to collect in his mouth. He coughed at the coppery taste, shaking his head to clear it.

Sweat had already began to drip off the shirtless militant man as he waited for the blond to regain some senses. Big Boss was generally a sweaty guy, but usually not as patient as this. Still, he knew, the kid was still learning. Stubborn as hell, Ocelot had yet to show much improvement in their bi-weekly sparring matches, each of them coming to an end with the kid flat on his back. A tattered brown mat covered the floor of the tiny shack they regularly met in – an old, unused storage area. The air felt thick in the jungle heat, the light from the dirty windows poor enough to keep the little building just a few degrees cooler than outside. It was tucked away in a grove, vines growing rampant along the outside walls from lack of use and upkeep. Perfect for peace and quiet.

Which happened, for Big Boss, to come in the form of beating the shit out of Ocelot.

Ocelot wiped the sweat from his forehead, wondering if Big Boss would mock him for wearing a headband. He could hear it already, _You think copying my wardrobe will make you a better fighter? Good luck, kid._ An obnoxious kind of anger flashed through Ocelot, who threw himself forward, a fist flung back for a high-power shot.

Big Boss moved to parry Ocelot's rookie move, but staggered slightly as the younger man twisted to the side and landed an unexpected jab into his ribs. It stung, but did more surprise than damage. The mulleted mercenary recovered quickly and grabbed Ocelot's wrist before the boy could tuck back, and pulled hard. 

Ocelot scrambled for footing, wincing as his idol brought an elbow down onto the small of his back. He landed sharply on his knees as his wrist was relieved, heaving for breath. He felt Big Boss walk around his fallen form, and could nearly hear the smirk on the older man's face.

“Had enough?” 

There it was. That awful, horrible smirk, leaking into the mercenary's deep, rough voice. Ocelot dragged his head up to stare at the other spy.

Shirtless, sweaty, and slightly bruised, the man he hated and adored stood in front of him, hands on his hips. Ocelot's eyes flicked over his muscled chest, and the light spattering of scratches and marks his few pathetic hits had left. His gaze dropped further, to Big Boss's hips, where his worn-out sweatpants hung slightly below appropriate levels, exposing a tasteful amount of dark hair. Ocelot swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

The blond man hung his head and leaned forward to drop his sore hands to the mat, hoping he could blame his heated cheeks on their sparring. He glanced at his own heavily bruised chest, and at his scraped and reddened arms. A near-perfect hand print was forming on his wrist where Big Boss had grabbed him. 

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to combat the feeling of how uncomfortably tight his pants were getting. 

Oh, he could really hear that one now. _Geez, kid, I didn't know you liked me kicking your ass that much._

Ocelot had only a moment of rest before he felt a foot plant firmly between his shoulder blades and slam him face-down onto the dirty mat.

A muffled “ _Fuck!_ ” rang through the small building, nearly echoing in the stifling heat.

“That's what you get for not paying attention,” Big Boss snapped, circling around the boy again. “Shit at combat _and_ listening. That's nearly a fucking talent.” Coming to a stop in front of his rival, the one-eyed man squatted down so they were nearly at the same level. He studied the blond, who had risen onto his elbows, panting heavily.

“I wasth paying attention!” Ocelot raised his head, glaring at the older man. Blood had begun dripping from his probably-broken nose, heavy drops thudding onto the mat. He lifted an unsteady hand to wipe at it, but it did little to hinder the impressive flow.

Big Boss shook his head, sighing loudly. He grabbed a bruised shoulder and pushed backwards Ocelot onto his knees, so they were mirroring positions. Ocelot protested slightly, and swatted Big Boss's hand away as he began choking his own blood. 

Big Boss carefully waited until the coughing fit was done and, with surprising gentleness, put a fist under the blond's chin to tilt his head back.

“This will help it stop,” he explained slowly.

“I know that!”

The mercenary rolled his eyes as Ocelot did his best to not choke further, and took the distraction as an opportunity to stare at the younger man's beaten body, eye coming to a rest between the boy's knees. He blinked in surprise at the obvious hardness present.

He glanced back up at Ocelot's face, which was still tilted to the ceiling. A thousand and four ideas bloomed in his mind. _His mouth on the boy's chest – the boy's mouth on his cock – a warm hand wrapped around – buried deep inside – –_

Ocelot shifted uncomfortably, his knees and neck starting to ache from the awkward position. 

The movement pulled Big Boss out of the flurry of images that had abruptly flooded his head. It reminded Big Boss of the first time, as a strapping and excitable young man, he experienced the fine curve of a woman's breast. He remembered the feeling was akin to how a well-cleaned and loaded German Mauser felt in his hand, heavy and arousing. Though this time he would much rather grab something a little more warm.

The older man shivered slightly at the unexpected arousal, the fresh smell of sweat and blood only increasing the pressing desire to once more pin down the boy just to see how he'd squirm.

He let his hand slip away from Ocelot's face, and trailed it down the bruised, slick chest and abdomen, feeling the abused muscles twitch slightly, finally coming to a rest on the other man's thigh.

Ocelot's heart rate spiked, his icy eyes snapping open at the unexpected touch. He quickly brought his head forward, opening his mouth to ask _What the hell?_

The force of movement caused his nose to again start bleeding, metallic liquid slipping back onto his tongue, halting his speech before it could even form. 

Before Ocelot could even spit the blood out of his mouth, Big Boss again grabbed his chin and smashed their faces together brutally. He bit the younger man's lip, tearing it open slightly, the copper taste filling his mouth to again mirror the other.

Ocelot immediately took this as a challenge, and returned the enthusiasm thrice-fold. He leaned into the kiss and grabbed the other mans' thighs for balance, moaning slightly as a warm tongue slid into his mouth. Ocelot's eyes shut as he thrust himself closer to the larger man, bringing his hand up to grasp at Big Boss's thick cock through his pants.

Big Boss gasped and abruptly pulled away, knocking Ocelot's hand away from his crotch in surprise. A thick line of spit, blood, and probably snot connected their mouths for a brief moment. They each stared at the other, panting, their arousal thickening the air like live electricity. 

Ocelot was the first to speak.

“Did I win?”

Big Boss punched him in the face.


	2. Bruised Crushes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain of liking someone can dull in comparison to getting your face smashed against a brick wall, the taste of a crush so similar to the blood that runs from your nose into your mouth, on which you choke, and then you have a boner.

Crushes can hurt.

Crushes that develop in hallways, in between lockers and under bleachers that evolve through dances and parties and underage drinking. Those crushes disrupt lives in the way of harsh rumors and second-guessing, a teenage self esteem crisis.

Crushes can ruin lives.

Crushes the develop deep within the Russian jungle, on a dirty, bloody training mat that evolve through jammed bullets, over waterfalls, and through electrocution torture. Though _that_ kind of crush is ruined through the looming idea of a swift yet painful death for something along the lines of treason. The kind of crush that ruins your life and also leaves you broken and bloody in a dumpster behind a Russian compound.

Crushes _will literally kill you_.

Crushes that wind through your body to twine around your heart and twist so you can't breathe right, the kind that muddles your thoughts so your hands slip during training and you shoot your superior in the calf. Crushes that dull in comparison to getting your face smashed against a brick wall, that taste so similar to the blood that runs from your nose into your mouth, on which you choke, and then you have a boner, because you can only imagine that it's _his_ hand gripping your hair.

Two months of scrubbing bathroom floors was hell, waiting for intel or communication or _something_ from that blonde bitch who was so close to him. A matter of situational coincidence, he thought, that _she_ got to be the one to escort him. _He_ could've done a perfectly fine job.

Instead he took a motorcycle tire in the face and got stuck cleaning bathroom floors while his stupid shitty crush manifested in the pits of his stomach, while waiting for that _woman_ to get her shit together and _get him out of this hellhole._

And so Ocelot stayed, curled on his side on a thin mattress, his dark tank top clinging to his slightly sweaty skin. The hot afternoon light filtered through the sole window, casting deep shadows throughout the room and over the blond man on the bed. The sharp, erratic calls of Russian jungle birds accompanied the gentle jingling of dogtags, which nearly completely drowned out the soft, rapid panting that filled the small room. 

_The only good thing that can come from scrubbing floors..._

Rough hands. 

It still felt wrong. His hand, somehow still too soft, and longer and thinner than he knew _his_ hand would feel like, wrapped around his cock. Or tangled in his hair, or clamped around his wrists in a painful fashion. Ocelot could only imagine exactly how rough he might be, or what he might do. The mulleted mercenary was clearly an animalistic man – tearing into raw animals with his teeth and stabbing a knife into his own bullet wounds. The young major fully believed he would be just as fierce and tactless in bed.

Ocelot imagined Big Boss's hand wrapped around his neck as he straddled the bigger man, that intoxicating, throaty voice whispering dreamy demands and spitting insults. He thought about how thick muscles would feel against his own back, hot breath against his ear while he would be shoved against a wall, thick hands groping and pulling inconsiderately.

He mostly thought about how selfish Big Boss would be. How the older man might take without thinking of giving back. How he would use him for his own greedy pleasure, and every now and again, perhaps he might take pity on the blond man and finish him off without flair. Other times, he might just spit on Ocelot and leave. 

Ocelot moaned softly as he twisted his hand around his member, eyes fluttering shut at the idea of Big Boss slamming a fist into his face, then worsening the subsequent split lip with his teeth, smashing their mouths together in more of a weird power struggle than actually kissing. A trail of bloody bruises, starting at Ocelot's neck and winding down his body, nails digging into skin, drawing blood. Ocelot's arm, twisted sharply behind his back, pinned against the dirty training mat as Big Boss pissed on – – Wait, _what?_

Ocelot's eyes snapped open, his brows pulled together sharply as he frowned at the open window. His eyes darted around the room, face red with sudden embarrassment. 

He swallowed painfully, mouth dry, and rolled onto his back, pulling his sticky hand out of his pants. The sweat on his body was rapidly cooling, making him even more uncomfortable as his heart thudded thickly against his ribcage. As his breathing slowed, he stared at the ceiling, watching dust motes float lazily through the room. 

Ocelot has always thought that crushes were supposed to come with flowers and candy. But now, he knew, they could also come with bruises and piss.

_Well, that's weird._

**Author's Note:**

> I cater to prompts.


End file.
